


Five Times Matt and Foggy Ate Together (And One Time Karen Ate with Them.)

by a_silver_sun



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Food and drink, Gen, friendship fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_sun/pseuds/a_silver_sun
Summary: What it says on the box: five vignettes focusing on Matt and Foggy’s friendship, centered around food and drink. (Plus an extra one featuring Karen)For holmesazetaz for the Daredevil Exchange Secret Santa! Enjoy!





	Five Times Matt and Foggy Ate Together (And One Time Karen Ate with Them.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holmesazetaz](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=holmesazetaz).



> who asked for a Matt and Foggy friendship fic. I hope you enjoy it! Merry Christmas.
> 
> This is also for the Five Times Fic square on my Daredevil bingo card.

*

1) Columbian Blend

“Well, shit,” Foggy said as he and his new roommate, Matt stepped into the crowded cafe not far from their dorm. It was Foggy’s idea coming here; he figured sitting down to a hot cup of coffee and maybe a delicious baked good or two would be perfect for getting to know the kid assigned to live with him for the next foreseeable future. 

But he didn’t see any available tables. The place was absolutely jam packed with other students; apparently Foggy’s getting-to-know-you idea hadn’t been all that original. 

“Change of plans!” he was about to say, but Matt spoke up before he even had the chance to open his mouth. “We should get in line anyway,” Matt said, and Foggy had to admire the man’s determination.

Foggy offered his elbow the same way Matt had showed him on the way to the cafe, and Foggy thought it was pretty cool how easy and natural Matt’s hand felt there as they made their way through the crowd of students.

“Doing all right?” Foggy asked as they took their place toward the back of the line, because this was all still new to him and he wasn’t sure how well Matt navigated spaces like this.

“Yeah,” Matt said, “You’re doing great.”

“ _I’m_ doing great,” Foggy said, because he wasn’t doing anything special. He was just making his way through a crowded cafe. 

The line was about a half dozen heads deep, but it was moving along nicely. They wouldn’t have to wait long. He looked up at the enormous black chalkboard hanging on the wall behind the cash register; on it listed all the various coffee and coffee-esque concoctions the cafe had to offer, and they all sounded fucking delicious. Every last one of them.

“Is it cool if I read you the menu?” Foggy said, because Foggy had no idea how Matt usually made decisions like this without reading the menu board. Hell, Foggy _could_ read the menu, and he had no idea what he was going to get.

“Nah, I’m good,” Matt said, “I don’t… I don’t really like, um. I mean, I usually just go for a plain coffee.”

“Plain? Like _plain-plain_? Not even a little milk or flavoring or something, ‘cause they have—” 

“Plain black coffee,” Matt said with a nod, and Foggy’s face nearly folded in on itself at the thought of coffee without anything in it. Who could even _drink_ it like that. Coffee with nothing else in it was way too bitter and… 

And Foggy was a complete idiot. He mimed smacking his forehead because plain black coffee was almost always the cheapest item on the menu in a coffee shop like this. And you didn’t need sight to know that. 

Foggy wasn’t sure how to offer to pay for both their orders without it sounding vaguely insulting, so Foggy took the initiative and placed his order first. A snickerdoodle latte sounded like something you’d find on a dessert plate rather than in a cup of coffee, but rich, cinnamon-y goodness sounded too good to pass up, so that’s what Foggy ordered once it was their turn in line. That and a chocolate croissant. 

As nonchalantly as he could manage, Foggy muttered, “My treat. Get whatever you want.”

And Matt’s expression could only be described as smug as he turned toward the cashier. “Plain black, please,” he firmly said.

Foggy shrugged. “You try ‘n help a guy,” he jokingly complained to the poor cashier. 

“Next time’s on me,” Matt said as soon as the transaction was finished. They moved away from the line, and Foggy scanned the room one last time just in case any tables magically opened up while they weren’t looking, but he didn’t see anything.

“C’mon, we’ll try to sit somewhere else,” Foggy said and headed toward the door.

Matt squeezed his elbow, adjusting his grip as they walked maybe, but it was enough to bring Foggy’s attention to a group of kids vacating a nearby table.

“Oh, hey!” Foggy said, “Would you look at that.” 

“Hm?”

 _Whoops_. “Sorry, dude. There’s table open.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Matt said with a laugh. “It’s not your fault a table’s open.”

“He’s hilarious,” Foggy said as he and Matt made their way through the crowded cafe. 

“I try,” Matt deadpanned. His fingers found the back of the chair before Foggy had the chance to say anything, and his cheeks burned as Matt pulled the chair out for himself. The guy knew what he was doing. Of course he did. It might have been Foggy’s first day at this, but it certainly wasn’t Matt’s. 

Matt took several large sips of his bitter brew, and Foggy had to wonder just what kind of badass this guy was.

Sure, plain coffee was an acquired taste. That’s what people said, anyway. Older people. Exactly how did a kid their age acquire a taste for bitter coffee, Foggy would like to know.

He broke the chocolate croissant in half, set in on a napkin, and slid it across the table. “I sure hope a little freshly baked pastry isn’t too delicious for my new bestie, because there’s a piece right in front of you with your name written all over it.”

Matt looked absolutely delighted at that. “Wait,” he said, and the rest of his reply was punctuated with bursts of sharp laughter. “My name’s written on the croissant? Really? This I have to see.” 

Foggy was a little taken aback by ‘I have to see,’ but maybe it was best to keep his trap shut. He didn’t know; this was all too new to him. Anyway, Matt picked up the pastry and ran his fingers over the top of it. Foggy had never seen anyone actually ‘read’ Braille before, but he supposed that was how it was usually done. Probably not over baked goods, though. 

Matt feigned disappointment at not finding his name on top of a coffee shop baked good. “Ah well,” he said. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

He sighed, happy and content as he ate. “Thanks, Foggy,” he said once he finished eating. 

And Foggy was pretty sure it wasn’t for the croissant.

 

*

2) Eggs Over Contraband

Foggy cracked open the door to their dorm room enough to stick his head through, you know, just in case, and mentally cursed when he took stock of what he saw in the room. Or more accurately: who. Foggy hoped he’d find the room to himself, hoped Matt would have made himself scarce, but. No. No such luck. Matt was right there, stretched out on his bed with his earbuds in his ears and his laptop balanced on his outstretched legs and Jesus Christ, did this guy ever not study?

All at once Matt set aside his laptop, pulled out an earbud, and turned his head toward the door. “You forget something?” Matt asked, and Foggy wanted to face-palm.

“I could be anybody; you don’t know.”

“Took an educated guess,” Matt said with a lopsided shrug. 

Well, so much for setting up in secret. Foggy clicked the door shut and shrugged off his backpack. Then he set about emptying its contents onto his bed. He had: One carton of eggs; one package of plasticware; one pack of paper plates; one hot plate; one cheap-o frying pan from the dollar store; one extension cord he borrowed from that stoner-kid Michael down the hall. Foggy was smart enough not to ask any questions, just thanked him profusely and left it at that.

Foggy glanced over at Matt as he sorted through his stuff. He had his head canted at an odd angle—he did that sometimes, it reminded Foggy of an attentive golden retriever—and a confused expression on his face. Foggy realized Matt probably had to make a lot of educated guesses about what went on around him.

“What are you doing,” he asked, and this was why Foggy wanted Matt elsewhere. Maybe it was stupid, but he really wanted all this to be a surprise. Plus, he wasn’t sure just how Matt would react. Matt was kind of… Matt tended to be stitched up pretty tight and what Foggy had in mind was definitely against the rules. But dammit, all he wanted in life was to make their dorm feel a little more like home; was that really too much to ask?

“It’s… Okay, promise you won’t judge me, but it’s a rainy Saturday morning, and I wanted to make us breakfast.” He should have picked up some bread, too. Did he have room enough in his bag to smuggle in a toaster, too? Also, he definitely should have gotten butter while he was still at the store. Vegetable oil, at the very least. Dammit, these were all basic things that he somehow completely overlooked. 

Well, too late now.

Foggy had expected Matt to react with a protest of some kind, maybe a slightly scandalized expression at the very least, but no, Matt actually looked genuinely thrilled at the prospect. 

Matt was on his feet and by Foggy’s side in a flash. Foggy had all the contraband items spread out on his bed, and Matt was scoping it all out with his open, greedy hands.

“Hey, now,” Foggy said, because this was supposed to be his project. 

“I just wanted to see what you had,” Matt said, and Foggy wasn’t buying the innocent ‘I was just looking’ act one bit. No. Matt was trying to squeeze Foggy out of his own kitchen. So to speak.

“I actually can cook, you know,” he protested.

“I never said you couldn’t,” Matt said brightly. “But I know my way around a stove.” He paused. “Or an unauthorized hot-plate.”

“Seriously?”

“Sure,” Matt said. He went over to the window and cracked it open enough to let fresh air in. Or to keep suspicious odors out. “Well, you know I lived in an orphanage after my dad died, right?”

“Oh my God,” Foggy said, because, yeah, that made a lot of sense. 

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “But I did a lot of cooking on my own before that, too,” He gestured toward the bed. “You go and plug in the hot-plate, I’ll—”

“Don’t even think about taking this from me, Murdock!” Still, Foggy followed his friend’s instructions and went about setting up the hot-plate. 

He set it up on his desk and patiently waited for the thing to warm. Next to him, Matt bounced on his toes. He was so desperate to take over cooking duties he could hardly stand still. Well, tough luck, pal, because today, breakfast was one hundred percent courtesy of Foggy Nelson.

“Here, let me just—”

“Matthew,” Foggy warned. 

Matt put his hands up, surrendering. “I’ll get out of your hair,” he said and finally, finally sat down on his bed.

He wasn’t sure how many eggs he should put into the pan, and he wasn’t about to ask for advice from Gordon Ramsay over here, so he cracked open the entire dozen, each one into the pan with a creative flick of the wrist, et voila! Franklin Nelson: five-star chef. Except the bubbling egg concoction filled right up to the brim of the pan and it occurred to him that maybe he didn’t actually know what he was doing. 

The expression on Matt’s face was a pained one, but Foggy wasn’t about to admit to this minor fuck-up. He had this, dammit.

He fished out a plastic fork from its box and started stirring. Then he worried the fork might melt if he wasn’t careful, so he kept the stirring down to a minimum and hoped for the best.

“So,” he prompted, “You used to cook a lot when you were a kid?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. Well, sighed. It was a very breathy ‘yeah.’ This must have been hard for him to talk about. “Yeah. My dad was… it was it tough for him, being a, you know, being a single dad. But it was tough for both of us. And... Well, he did his best.”

“Sometimes I forget you didn’t have a mom growing up.” Foggy couldn’t imagine. If anything, his parents were a little _too_ involved in his life. Foggy was the first in his family to go to college, but mom never wasted an opportunity to express her disappointment in her son’s chosen career path. She had hoped Foggy would take over the store when she and dad came to retirement age, but that responsibility would now have to fall to his brother, and… And Foggy continued stirring the eggs. That was neither here nor there. 

“Yeah, well,” Matt said. “That’s kind of…” he made a scrunched up face. “No, I just… He was just gone a lot of the time, you know? Sometimes I went to see the fights, but mostly I stayed home and watched them on TV. Very often he’d get in real late, you know? And busted up, and I… I helped when I could; I’d stitch him up, or, or for dinner I’d make more than I could possibly eat on my own and leave whatever was left in the fridge... ”

It sounded like Matt was describing parentification, but Foggy didn’t know enough about child psychology to comment on it. At least the eggs were coming along well. Nice and fluffy. Almost ready to plate.

“Then after I… you know,” Matt gestured toward his face. “I went through a lot of therapy after my accident. Not just to learn how to cope… emotionally with my new reality, but how to live life. Everyday things you’d take for granted. One of those things was knowing how to feed myself, and it was a good thing I already knew my way around the kitchen, because let me tell you, none of it was easy.”

“Yeah,” Foggy said. “I can’t imagine.” He sounded far away even to his own ears. He’d only wanted to surprise his friend with a little dorm-room cooking. Something simple he could do, something warm and comforting, and highly forbidden. That juxtaposition amused him, and it was supposed to make this whole thing fun and little bit ridiculous; that something as wholesome as home cooking carried with it the serious risk of getting caught. That he expected. He just hadn’t expected this whole thing to get as heavy as it has.

Jesus, Matt went through a lot as a kid. Foggy probably didn’t know the half of it.

But now he couldn’t stop thinking about the blind kid in the orphanage who apparently used those hard-earned coping skills to make food for himself on the sly. “You ever get caught?”

“Hm?”

“With the hot-plate. At St. Agnes’.”

“Oh, sure. Plenty of times. Kids were constantly in and out of my room. They were bound to get noticed. Nothing gets past the Sisters. I was,” and here he put up air quotes, “spoiling the little ones’ appetites before supper.” Matt looked smug, but Foggy found it hilarious (and maybe a little bit sad) that Matt Murdock’s big rebellious phase consisted of feeding some of the other kids there in the orphanage. 

“So, yeah,” he continued. “I definitely got caught. The Sisters were furious of course, but the priest…” Matt paused. “He was just glad I had something to keep me out fights.”

Foggy’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Fights? Seriously? You got into fights.”

Under his breath Matt muttered, “You have no idea,” and yeah. Foggy supposed he didn’t.

“That smells fantastic, by the way,” Matt said. He took that as his cue to start scooping the eggs out of the pan and on to the pair of waiting paper plates. 

“Well, here’s hoping they taste as good as they smell,” Foggy said. He passed a plate to Matt and sat next to him on the bed.

The eggs were a little over-done, but he and Matt ate them happily and neither one complained.

“So,” Foggy said around a mouthful of half-chewed scrambled egg, “did I ever tell you my mom wanted me to be a butcher?”

*

3) Irish Catholic Coffee

Matt knew Foggy was here the instant he entered the church. With that scent-cloud wafting over him? He was impossible to miss. He didn’t bother turning around to get his friend’s attention. He didn’t need to, Foggy spotted him just fine on his own.

“Ah, there he is,” Foggy muttered and made his way down the aisle. Matt made room on the pew for Foggy, and when his friend was near enough, he bit out a low, “You can’t bring coffee inside a church, Foggy.” Paused for effect and added, “Also, I know about the donuts stashed in your coat pocket. And that bottle of Jameson.”

“Still creepy,” Foggy muttered cooly. “Maybe I just wanted to see my friend, give him a little pick-me-up?” 

And Matt realized this was Foggy’s idea of an olive branch. Ever since Foggy found out… about what Matt does at night, well, saying things had been tense between them would be dramatically underselling it. But Foggy was here now, which was a good a start as any. “I stopped by Fogwell’s first,” Foggy explained. “Figured it would be one or the other.” Foggy sat next to Matt, and Matt quickly gathered up the coffees and hid them underneath his jacket. The smell wafting from those paper cups was absolutely wonderful. He'd be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to steal a sip or two. 

Foggy leaned in close, and in a stage whisper said, “You should know, there is a tiny nun at your one o’clock giving me the deadly stink-eye.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I noticed her there a while ago. Pretty sure she’s one of the nuns who raised me. I recognize the hand lotion, anyway.”

He had a flash of memory the moment he sat in down in the pew: Matt in bed and screaming into the night, trapped inside his own head and absolutely bombarded with sensory input. She would come to him then, come to his bedside to offer comfort; to make soothings sounds; to wipe his sweaty brow; to cover his shaking hands with her own steady ones. And she did that for him night after night without fail. Right up until she didn’t, that was. And well. It didn’t matter much after that, because Stick found him soon thereafter. 

Matt inhaled through his nose, because yeah. That was Stick’s whole thing. No one was going to come and coddle you, so you might as well learn how to suck it up. 

Next to him in the pew, Foggy’s body was warm and solid. “No shit?” he said. “You should go and say hello. Maybe she keeps looking over because she recognizes you, but doesn’t want to be rude about it.” 

“Or maybe because smuggling food inside a church is a little inappropriate?”

“Still on that, huh? ”

“Surely you realize how many kids pass through here every year. I sincerely doubt the Sister remembers me.” But Matt doubted the truth of that. Maybe it was self-centered of him, but he guessed it would be tough for any compassionate human being to simply forget about a kid in that much pain.

“You never know,” Foggy said and reached into his jacket for the bag of donuts.

“Uh-uh,” Matt said. “No food in here. But. There’s a bench outside on the sidewalk, we can take our snack to go if you want. You can doctor those coffees before we head out, and I... I’ll tell you a little bit about what it was like growing up here.”

*

4) Pho Giveness

Matt approached the reception area and flashed a smile at the pair of bored young women stationed there. This was his first visit inside the esteemed halls of HB&C, and he couldn’t say he was very impressed. 

Soulless would be one way to describe it. Cold and heartless was another. Everything inside the building was made of some combination of chrome and glass and he guessed it must have been incredibly impressive, aesthetically. Of course Matt had very little use for aesthetics. 

Helping people, that was what mattered. Not money. Not whatever… this impersonal hell was. 

And he had come here to see Foggy. God help him. God help both of them.

“Hi,” one of the women behind the counter said. She greeted him with about as much enthusiasm as a bland bowl of oatmeal. Until she looked up, that was. “Oh,” was the only thing she managed. He was sure she recognized him.

Yeah,” he said. “Hi.” He lifted the large paper bag he was carrying and said, “I’m here to see Franklin Nelson? I brought him lunch.”

The other woman said, “You’re not the usual delivery guy.”

“I am not. Foggy and I—Mr. Nelson and I go way back. Thought I drop by with lunch. Catch up.”

The receptionist reached for the phone and Matt immediately covered her hand with his own. Fear and confusion spiked through her system, but she wordlessly set the receiver back on its cradle under the weight of Matt’s hand.

“You don’t need to call anyone,” he suggested. “I’ll just… go. Up. It’s okay; he’s expecting me.”

She gave him a dull nod, and he took that as his cue to head toward the bank of elevators; he strode faster than was probably necessary, swung his cane wide, too. But he didn't really care. He just wanted to get this over with.

Once inside the elevator, he ran his knuckles over the control panel until finding the correct button. Huffed through his nose as the elevator car began its ascent. 

Down in the reception area, the desk clerks were gossiping about him.

_“Wasn’t that Matt Murdock?”_

_“I thought he died or something. Something happened to him, right?”_

_“Friend of mine on the force said Daredevil and those guys up and kidnapped him. And nobody’s heard from him since.”_

_“Are you serious. Holy shit.”_

_“I know, right. I don’t know him all that well, but Mr. Nelson took it pretty bad from what I remember.”_

_“Wow. Now he's back.”_

Then the two women started in with all manner of conspiracy theories as to how Matt survived, what his real intentions were for coming in today, et cetera, et cetera. But Matt tuned them out. As the elevator car neared his requested floor, Matt had other things to focus on. Other people.

He absently worried at the leather strap on his cane. It wasn’t too late to back out of this, head back to the church.

He was sure Maggie would understand.

Actually, she wouldn’t coddle him at all; she’d call him a coward right to his face, and he’d have no choice but to admit she’d been right.

Tired of his moping around the church’s basement, Maggie had pressed two crisp twenty dollar bills into his palm and said, “Nourish your soul.”

Which could have meant anything. She didn’t know. Matt could have bee-lined it straight to the nearest bar and drowned his soul with a bottle of booze instead.

But. Reaching out to his friends was probably more inline with her intentions.

The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and Matt was let out onto on a spacious and deceptively quiet floor. 

The main corridor was empty, but everything important happening here went on inside offices and conference rooms and behind closed doors.

He expanded his focus to find Foggy, but he didn’t need to go very far. His friend was in the men’s room, and Matt positioned himself against the opposite wall so that he’d be directly in Foggy’s eye-line when he emerged from the bathroom.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Foggy was on the phone, not watching where he was going, so Matt very subtly rustled the paper bag containing their lunch.

It did the trick, and Foggy looked up. And right at him. 

“No way,” he whispered.

“Way,” Matt said. The smile that crept over his face was a sheepish one, but it was real. Genuine, and Foggy’s was too. Minus the sheepishness, of course.

“This is for real?”

“It’s for real. Foggy, I—” But before he could finish his thought, Foggy rushed over to him and enveloped Matt in the biggest, warmest hug he’d ever received. Ever, in his entire life. Not that his was filled with them, but Foggy was warm and real, and he knew he owed Maggie an apology. Or three. 

He’d take his lumps and his ‘I-told-you-sos,’ because she’d been right; seeing his friend again was nourishing in ways didn’t realize he needed.

“God, Matt, I have so many questions. The most important one being: what the hell is that bag, because it smells friggen divine.”

“Pho,” he said. “I thought… I thought soup was appropriate.”

“Well, I don’t know about what’s ‘appropriate,’ but I’m so glad you’re here, Matt. C’mon. I’ll show you my office.”

 

*

 

5) Avocado Toast

“This, right here? This is how it should be.”

“What, beer and pizza?”

“No, not the—why do you always do that.”

“Please, tell me. What do I always do.”

“Seriously? You need me to spell it out for you? ‘Cause, buddy, let me tell you— No, actually, you know what? Nevermind. Forget I said anything. Things are good, and I don’t want us to fall back on old habits where we turn everything into an never-ending argument.”

“I can agree to those terms, counselor.”

“Oh, good, glad we’re on the same page. Finally. About something. Anyway. As I was trying to say: This is what it’s about. You and me sitting on your shitty leather couch, eating shitty pizza, in your equally shitty apartment—”

“Wow. You don’t need to insult me like that, you know.”

“With that God-awful billboard—”

“Hey, my wallet is extremely grateful for that billboard’s alleged awfulness.”

“I’m sure. Speaking of which: don’t forget you still owe Karen a shit-ton of back-rent.”

“Ugh. Yeah. I’ll make it up to her.”

“You’d better.” 

“I will!”

“Okay, but I’m just saying. You don’t always have the best track record when it comes to doing right by your friends.”

“What the hell does that mean. I… You know what, I thought you said we were done bickering.”

“Dammit! You’re right, I did say that.”

“Of course I am, I’m always right.”

“That might be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Ever?”

”Okay, fine. It wasn’t even the funniest thing I heard today. Jesus, would you stop being such a pedantic ass all the time?”

“Eh, it’s part of my charm.”

“Pft. You wish.”

“Well, at least the beer’s not terrible.”

“Well, of course not. I picked it out.”

“Well, can’t argue with you there.”

“I’m sure you’d manage it somehow.”

“Yeah, probably. Anyway. Foggy. Thanks for coming over tonight.”

“Nah, dude. It’s totally cool. Like I said, this is how it should be, now and forever. So here’s to us, pal. Here’s to Nelson and Murdock: Part Deux!”

“Ha. Part Deux. Anyway. Cheers, Foggy, and—”

“— _sláinte mhaith_.”

*

+1) A Kiss without the Squeeze

“All right,” Foggy said, “Let’s see what we’ve got,” because Karen promised the boys dessert and she knew they both had been looking forward to it for most of the day.

“Full disclosure,” she said as she served them each a slice of warm apple pie, “I didn’t bake this myself, but I hope you guys like it anyway! Enjoy!”

“Um. No offense, Karen, but what the hell did you do to this poor pie,” Foggy said. 

“Is that…” Matt leaned in and very obviously sniffed at his dessert. “Did you put white cheddar cheese on this?”

“Okay, first of all,” Foggy said, “how can you possibly know what _color_ the cheese is—”

“No, you’re right; I don’t actually know what color the cheese is. But I do know it’s a white cheddar because I’m not detecting any annatto.That’s the additive which gives the cheese that familiar yellow color. Also, I can tell from its sharpness that this is a Vermont cheddar, which by definition is a white cheese.”

“You can really tell all that just from the smell?” Karen said. She was fascinated by how detailed Matt’s senses could get. “Could you tell which dairy it’s from?”

“No, because I haven’t actually been to Vermont; I’d need a baseline first if I wanted to parse it down that far.” 

“Oh.”

“Did you know,” Foggy said, sounding more like a bratty kid tattling to the teacher than a professional lawyer, “Matthew here has never once stepped foot off the island of Manhattan?”

“Really? You’ve really never been anywhere else? Wow, Matt, we definitely need to change that.” 

Okay, so you couldn’t actually pay Karen enough money to willingly go back to her shithole hometown, but now that she was thinking about it, she could see taking the boys to some of her old stomping grounds in the mountains for a weekend. Take them skiing, maybe? Was that something Matt could do that? Could Matt ski? He regularly parkoured over the city like he owned it; she didn’t see why he couldn’t _ski_.

She was about to ask when Foggy said, “Okay, great! We’ve established there is in fact Vermont white cheddar cheese on top of our pie. However! I would hazard a guess that even Matthew’s freakish nose could not tell us _why_ there is melted Vermont white cheddar cheese atop our apple pie. _Karen_.” 

“Hey now,” she said, because she couldn’t say she enjoyed being put on the defensive like this. “I just wanted to bring you guys a little taste of home.”

Matt and Foggy both gaped at her. Wow. She managed to render them speechless with that. Amazing.

“C’mon,” she said. “Cheese on apple pie is definitely a thing. Actually, I’ll have you know that in the state of Vermont, serving it that way is actually required by law. I grew up in a diner guys; I know how to serve pie.”

“Are you sure this whole cheese on pie thing wasn’t just some gimmick your dad invented to gin up business for the family restaurant,” Foggy said. 

“I can’t believe you guys never heard of this before. Also, you’re both lawyers. Why is it so difficult to believe some places might have weird laws still on the books.” 

A knowing expression passed over their faces. It was eerie how in-sync they were; if she didn’t know better, she’d swear they were communicating telepathically.

“Matthew,” Foggy said.

“Franklin.”

“Ms. Page here has a very good point, and I think we should listen to her.”

“I don’t know,” Matt teased, “I’m not sure I’m really sold on the whole ‘cheese on pie’ thing.”

“I don’t disagree. What the hell do we know about pairing dairy with baked goods anyway. However, we do know the law.”

“That we do! Passed the bar and everything.”

“And what highly sought-after skill did we hone so well studying for said exam?”

“How to drink!” 

“Yes! But more importantly, how to Google!”

Karen tried stifling her laughter. Really, these guys were too much.

“Counselor,” Matt said, gesturing at Foggy with his near-empty glass of whiskey. “If you’d do us the honors.”

Foggy pulled his phone from his pocket and began tapping away. After several long seconds, he hummed to himself, then handed the phone to Karen.

Matt folded his hands and set them in front of himself. The grin he wore was a lopsided one as he patiently waited for Karen to read aloud the verdict.

“Karen,” Matt prompted.

“Oh! Right. Okay.” She read: “‘It is hereby enacted by the General Assembly of the State of Vermont: Sec.’” She looked at Foggy. “Section?” 

“Go ahead and skip that part.”

“Okay. It says, ‘The state pie shall be apple pie.’”

“Naturally,” Matt said.

“Section two. Okay. This is the important part: ‘Serving apple pie. When serving apple pie in Vermont, a "good faith" effort shall be made to meet one or more of the following conditions:  
(a) with a glass of cold milk,  
(b) with a slice of cheddar cheese weighing a minimum of half an ounce,  
(c) with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream.’”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the great state of Vermont: your tax dollars at work!” Foggy proclaimed.

“Hey, this is a very important piece of legislature. After all, my family’s livelihood depended on it.”

“Well,” Matt said. “There we have it. Ms. Page has indeed made a ‘good faith effort’ in fulfilling her pie-serving obligation as prescribed by law.”

“Thank you, Mr. Murdock. So now that I’ve done my part…” she grandly gestured at the slices of pie cooling on the table in front of her friends.

And Matt and Foggy both grimaced. They picked up their forks, and in perfect unison took their first bite of cheddar apple pie. 

“So,” Karen said. She tried not to sound too eager. “What do you guys think?”

-the end-

*

The apple pie thing is real! I've never had cheddar on pie myself, but it's something I'd love to try. I'll bet it isn't as weird as it sounds; apple slices go well in fondue, for example.

Check these out if you're curious.

https://swirled.com/apple-pie-and-cheddar-cheese

http://www.leg.state.vt.us/docs/2000/acts/act015.htm


End file.
